


connor's hard-knock life

by Secretive



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bad sitcom, But mostly fluff, Connor says fuck significantly less, Crack, Disgusting and domestic, Ficlets, Fluff, Hank says fuck a lot, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Pacifist Ending, Tags/Rating subject to change, The title is saitirical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-06-09 15:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15270204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretive/pseuds/Secretive
Summary: After Connor moves in he kindles a routine that verges on domesticity. Hank comes home to drawn blinds and open lights, to the heating wired at a temperature not too hot nor too cold. Life with Connor is exactly that; just right.A collection of domestic ficlets. Certified wholesome content.





	1. like dog like --

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot the difference: Connor and Sumo edition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these silly ficlets are designed to be non-linear and can be read in any order, taking place after the pacifist ending!!  
> will be updated very irregularly afgfghs i have commitment issues.   
> may potentially have more/less than 20 chapters. this is just a milestone!

After Connor moves in he kindles a routine that verges on domesticity. Hank comes home to drawn blinds and open lights, to the heating wired at a temperature not too hot nor too cold. Life with Connor is exactly that; just right.  
  
Hank is addled at Connor's gracelessness in the kitchen. For someone so precise at the crime scene he is boyish and clumsy in domesticities. He breaks his way through nine plates and two broomsticks (Hank doesn't know how this happens) before he retires and leaves the cleaning to — _well_ , no one. This doesn't concern Hank; it wasn't a condition and never will be. Connor does, however, take it upon himself to walk Sumo. They become inseparable — lumbering giant and Connor, pretty and polite.  
  
This concerns Hank.  
  
Deviancy is chafing for Connor. Sometimes he stares at the wall too long. He is uncomfortable in his skin. But he was designed to adapt, to integrate the behaviours in the environment with his own.  
  
Connor is childish in that regard. Hank comes home late after a night at Jimmy's to find Connor staring very hard at the TV. His brows are stern. He is watching a romantic classic from the 2000's. He doesn't turn around when Hank closes the door behind him, and reaches for the draw. He doesn't find his slippers, because Connor has already set them neatly at the door.  
  
"Good evening, Hank." Connor says. He looks very serious.  
  
"Uh —" Hank looks at Sumo, nosing his ankle, looks back at Connor, "Yeah. Yeah, good evening to you, too."  
  
"I'm watching The Notebook." he says quickly, though Hank didn't ask, "It's very unrealistic. Please don't forget to take off your jacket."  
  
Hank makes an incredulous sound. He takes off his jacket.  
  
"That's the whole fucking _point_ , Connor." Hank joins him on the couch, throws his head back, "You don't have to study the thing. Just watch it."  
  
Connor hasn't looked up once. He isn't listening, "Is there a reason Allie licks the ice-cream off Noah's face? It’s incredibly unhygienic."  
  
"The same damn reason you lick all the shit at the crime scene," Hank shrugs, kicks his legs up against the table, "— ‘cause she wants to."  
  
Connor turns to look at him. "Please don't compare me with Allie." He sounds offended.  
  
Hank barks a laugh. He flicks Connor's temple, fingernail meeting skin just below his LED. Sumo barks — he is pacing. The DPD has been swamped as of recent months, a post-revolution inevitability. Connor has had little time to spare for Sumo and their long morning walks. The Bernard is restless. Hank picks up an ugly green chew toy. The Notebook drones listlessly in the background. He hurls the toy across the room, where it bounces once, twice, and settles in the kitchen. Sumo flies across the room. Connor seems to look away with great difficulty — watches carefully as Sumo pads back across the room and drops the toy in Hank's lap. He sits and wags his tail.  
  
Connor goes back to watching The Notebook. Hank throws the toy again. Sumo flies. Connor turns to observe again.  
  
Finally, the credits roll. Sumo paddles into the kitchen where he hunches over his water bowl. Hank throws the toy. It hits the ground with a dejected whine, where it is religiously ignored.  
  
" _Bad dog_ , Sumo." Hank slurs. Connor looks at him for a long, long time, then looks back at the screen. The credits end. He turns off the TV.  
  
Connor stands, pads across the room, and picks up the toy. He studies it before walking back and setting it on Hank's lap. Hank looks him in the eye. No one says anything.  
  
Connor walks into the bedroom and closes the door.  


 

* * *

  
  
  
It's a Sunday and Hank receives a call from Fowler, a tired voice message that demands Connor be kept at home. He has worked pedantically twelve hours a day, seven days a week, months at a time. Everyone at the office is concerned — Connor has reminded him that he cannot feel fatigue. Hank has reminded him that he doesn't give a shit.  
  
Hank has to scrabble out of bed half-dressed and assault Connor in the doorway to keep him from leaving the house. Connor is in his jacket — Hank makes him change out of it. They take Sumo for a walk.  
  
Connor in a sweatshirt and too-big pants is so surreal, but right. It's a pleasant morning, sunlight scattered by uneven branches caught in the skyline. The sidewalk is dappled with golden-grey. Connor's walk is stiff — he is being Connor. Sumo bounds gleefully off-leash — he is being a dog. They walk under the shade of a great oak.  
  
"You, uh," Hank teeters to find the right words, "you gotta lighten up, Connor. Fowler, _Fowler_ — left a message this morning," he scratches his chin, "Thought I'd lost my badge. Turns out he thinks he's working you too hard. Wants you to lay off."  
  
Connor is silent for a while. He is watching Sumo frolic with neighbourhood birds. He kneels to inspect a charm of finches, but they fly away. He looks up.  
  
"Captain Fowler has made a mistake," Connor stands, brushes the dirt from his pants, "I don’t mind, nor am I able to feel 'tired' — so to speak. His guilt is irrational.”  
  
Hank rubs the back of his neck, sighs dramatically, “Listen — don’t matter if it’s irrational. It’s goddamn Fowler. How many times have I told you? You gotta learn to _enjoy_ yourself, Connor.”  
  
Connor frowns at this, “... yes.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Hank slaps him on the back — this is supposed to be reassuring, but Connor looks at him sharply. Hank pulls his hand away.  
  
“Er, look, just —“ Sumo bounces back, drool sprinkling, tail swinging. He drops a sizeable stick at their feet, “— take a page out of Sumo’s book. He enjoys himself. I don’t think he even tries.”  
  
Hank doesn’t mean this literally, but Connor nods sternly. He disappears into foliage. Hank cranes his neck. He is genuinely concerned. Connor reappears moments later with a branch. He drops it at their feet.  
  
“For fucks —“ Hank tempers himself, clears his throat, inhales deeply, “— Not quite, _er_ , not quite what I meant, but I, uh, appreciate the gesture.”  
  
“‘Taking a page out of someone’s book’ refers to behaving, or doing something, in such a way someone else would,” Connor rubs his hands together, “In this context, you inferred Sumo’s behaviour.”  
  
Connor is a genius but on occasions such as this Hank wonders how the _hell_ he could be so dull. He is now concerned Sumo will engage in mildly dubious behaviour and Connor will follow suite — he wets his lips.  
  
“I’m going home,” Hank turns suddenly on his heel, “It’s a fucking sauna out here.”  
  
This is a lie. It’s quite pleasant out. Hank knows Connor knows Hank knows this is a lie. He frowns, but light footsteps behind indicate he’s following. Until he’s not.  
  
Hank stops immediately. He looks over his shoulder. Sumo is sprawled across the neighbours lawn, sunlight bathing him in liquid gold. He is eating grass. Hank looks to Connor. He is staring very hard.  
  
“ _Connor_ —“  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Connor takes nothing with a grain of salt.  
  
He is coerced into a week of leave. He sits at home with Sumo every day, both restless and unstimulated, waiting for Hank. When he does return — sometimes at noon, sometimes at night — he is mauled by Sumo. Connor slaps him very hard on the back.  
  
Sumo enjoys the little things in life, like pressing his face against the window and barking as cars fly by. Connor has never enjoyed anything. He sits alongside him and brings his face uncomfortably close to the window. He is trying.  
  
These are troubling developments. Last Friday when Connor is mowing the lawn, the old lady next door breaches their shared fence and pets him on the neck. Hank is horrified. He asks Connor to augment the fence.  
  
Hank doesn’t reproach his doggish abandon entirely. There are times when Connor seems almost human, tasting everything he touches with a morbid curiosity. He smiles more; they are authentic. But Hank is concerned as to how these behaviour will play out in the office. Lots of disciplinary warnings and aggravated Gavin’s, he imagines.  
  
Maybe they could reach a compromise.  
  
It’s another Sunday and Hank is roused by the warmness of the room. This is surprising — the ventilation is always mild. Hank groans, rubs his eyes. He feels Sumo coiled against his back, the softness of obsessively groomed fur. This is normal. But there is something else, nudging the arc of his spine — something not too hot nor too cold (just right). This is not normal. Hank throws his head over his shoulder. It’s Connor.  
  
Rolled into a ball and eyes wide-open. Hank looks back just to be sure. He takes a deep breath.  
  
“Connor,” he begins politely, “what the fuck are you doing?”  
  
He doesn’t look up, “I have observed this to be a penchant of Sumo’s you specifically fancy.” he says, “He is adamant to engage in this activity through the night.”  
  
“You—“ Hank sits up impossibly quickly, Sumo rolls over, “— _you were here the whole fucking night?_ ”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Sit the hell up.”  
  
Connor sits up. He’s in a recently ironed shirt and knee-high pants. He looks confused. Hank buries his face in his hands. He opens his mouth.  
  
“Connor, are you—“ he rubs a thumb over his nose, “— I hate to — look, you know you’re not _actually_ a dog, right?”  
  
Connor nods, “Yes, Hank. I am well aware.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, good start. You also know you can’t go dogging around at the office?”  
  
He smiles, “That’s very clever, Hank.”  
  
“Connor.”  
  
“Of course. I know that.” he almost sounds defensive.  
  
“Alright.” Hank says, for the lack of anything else to say.  
  
“Ok.” Connor says. Sumo is awake now — he cocks his head. Connor also cocks his head, “Is my behaviour troubling to you? I was under the impression you instigated this particular...change.”  
  
Hank stops massaging his temple. Sumo is wagging his tail. Connor’s hair is unkempt. Sunlight is trickling through the open window. It all very fantastical, in a shitty, enchanting kind of way. Suddenly Hank is very tired.  
  
“No — yeah. No. It doesn’t bother me,” Hank leans back on his elbows, Connor has bought him a new mattress — it is disgustingly soft, “just don’t — _steal_ the damn blankets, ok?”  
  
Hank lies down. Fuck compromises. Sumo needles himself between them, the wetness of his nose leaving moist circles in his collar. Connor still looks very confused.  
  
“Go back to sleep, Connor.” Hank grunts into Sumo’s temple. He is already drifting, “It’s fucking Sunday.”  
  
Hank is fast asleep by the time Connor lies back down. He wraps his arms tentatively around Sumo, his fingers brushing the lines of Hank’s waist. He is careful not to steal the blankets. It is incredibly uncomfortable. He closes his eyes. He is smiling.  
  
They sleep.


	2. made lovely by decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RK800 meets RK900.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little less fluff, little less crack, little more hurt/comfort. enjoy!  
> rk900 just looks like a greyson to me im sorry afghhgh  
> connor gets bullied. please protect him.

The android revolution diffuses but doesn’t dissipate. There are tensions in the air — a thick haze that hardens when inhaled. Connor finds it difficult to integrate into the workforce, chokes halfway on every breath. The DPD opens arms to androids. Their embrace is tentative and awkward.  
  
John is a PC200 and Jessica is a PM700. John is humorous and Jessica is unfussed. They are human — at least fake it well. Connor struggles to connect with them. Their conversations are terse.  
  
Then there is Greyson. He is the RK900. His presence is cool and blasé — he is a Connor model. His collars are intimidating, his height is intimidating, his eyes are intimidating. Connor doesn’t like him. They find him on floor -50 of the CyberLife tower, weeks after the revolution. CyberLife records reveal his successor had not been conceived recently. This concerns him.  
  
Humans are cynical and cautious things. Their loyalties in constant flux. The RK900 is faster, stronger, better in every way possible. This makes Connor uneasy. Greyson is assigned to Gavin. Nobody is happy about this.  
  
It’s Monday morning and Connor is half an hour early to the office — this is customary. The lights are on. He is not the first one there. Greyson’s desk is impossibly clean — his hair is impeccable. Gavin’s desk is adjacent and looks like an atomic bomb has been dropped on it.  
  
Connor fixes his hair. He does this unconsciously.  
  
“Good morning, Greyson.” he says pleasantly. His jaw hurts.  
  
Greyson is finishing a report. He doesn’t look up, “Connor.”  
  
There is silence. Connor swallows — he shifts on his feet.  
  
“Is that the homicide from last Thursday?” he tries, “It was a fascinating case. It’s quite impressive how effectively you evaluated the evidence. It’s unfortunate the bodies couldn’t be identified.”  
  
“Yes.” Greyson looks up sharply. Connor flinches, “Are you done?”  
  
Connor opens his mouth but can’t find the words. He turns away quickly and walks to his desk.  
  
Gavin arrives at 10:00. Hank still hasn’t arrived — these are trying times. Connor tries very hard to make himself invisible. He stands as discreetly as possible and makes a beeline for the evidence room. He is too slow. Gavin catches him by the elbow.  
  
“Hey, dipshit —“ Gavin has gotten more creative with his profanities, “— where the hell are you waddling off to?”  
  
Connor has had minimal trouble rebuffing Gavin in the past, but Greyson’s outline is stark in his shadow. Connor remembers their conversation earlier this morning. He swallows and turns around.  
  
“Detective Reed —“ Connor nods politely, “— Greyson. I’m currently headed for the evidence locker. I plan to... review.... evidence.”  
  
This is a bad lie. Connor knows this.  
  
“O-oh, the evidence room? To review evidence?” Gavin is sneering (Connor suspects this expression is permanent). He scoffs over his shoulder. Greyson doesn’t say anything, “That’s — that’s cute, Connor, it is, but, uh —“ he buries a finger in his chest, “— why don’t you make yourself fucking useful and tell me where those incident reports are?”  
  
There is a dreadful coldness in his stomach. Connor’s lids flutter. He doesn’t have the incident reports.  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t —“ Connor lurches forward. His LED cycles red for a fraction of a second. Gavin fists a hand in his shirt.  
  
His lips are drawn. Connor can taste his breath, “Don’t fucking talk back to me.”  
  
Connor takes Gavin’s wrist. He could break it if he wanted to. Greyson opens his mouth. He speaks nonchalantly.  
  
“You instigated a question, Detective Reed.” he says blankly, “RK800 answered it. Your behaviour is unnecessary and humiliating — for the both of us.”  
  
It is taboo to address androids by their make. Connor bristles. Gavin releases his shirt — he punches RK900 in the arm. Connor feels no semblance of gratitude. He sidesteps the both of them. Gavin shoulders him. His back hits the wall. Connor opens his mouth.  
  
“What the hell is going on here?”  
  
It’s 10:24 and Hank is early. The relief is so poignant Connor’s LED cycles yellow. Greyson seems to notice this. His LED is a confident blue.  
  
“Hank.” Gavin considers. He looks to Connor, then to Hank, then to Connor. He must decide it isn’t worth the trouble — he lets Connor move past him. He laughs but it‘s scathing.  
  
“Nothing. Nothing, Hank. C’mon — let’s get the fuck out of here,” Gavin moves past him. He pauses and rests a hand on Hank's shoulder. He is grinning, “oh, uh, might want to get your android checked out,” he taps his temple, clicks his tongue, “think he’s experiencing some uh, technical difficulties.”  
  
Gavin walks away. He is chuckling. Greyson is quick to follow. He does not spare them a second glance. Hank touches Connor’s shoulder.  
  
“Hey. Hey, Conner, look at me — you ok?”  
  
Connor doesn’t reply. He looks at his feet.  


* * *

  
  
  
Connor files the incident reports. He strides briskly to Gavin’s desk when he is on break. He is surprised to find the reports already there, piled neatly one on top of the other. Connor looks at Greyson. He does not look up. He clenches his fist and walks away.  
  
Connor is troubled the rest of the afternoon. He makes a typo and spills Hank’s coffee. Hank tempers his ire.  
  
“So?” Hank wipes down the table, “What do you make of the, uh — Gavin’s android? Partner. Greyson, was it?”  
  
Connor looks around. His mouth twitches, “I find him extremely unpleasant.”  
  
“ _Extremely_ unpleasant.” Hank recites. He leans back and crosses his arms. He is smiling, “Well, someone’s got an opinion.”  
  
“Yes, Hank. Me. I have an opinion.”  
  
Hank raises a brow. He goes to replenish his coffee — Connor stands and makes his way to the washroom.  
  
The door slides open with a whine. It is empty — somehow this allays him. He leans over the washbasin and plunges water into his face. Connor doesn’t know why humans engage in this. It is redundant and does little to soothe him. He feels no less unsettled. His hair is now wet and there’s droplets on his jacket. He adjusts his tie. He looks at his reflection.  
  
His brow is knitted — this surprises him. He unknits them. Smoothes his jacket. Adjusts his tie again, before turning for the door. It opens. Connor moves to the side. Greyson strides in. He is careful not to meet his eye. Connor tries to slide past him briskly. Greyson doesn’t move. The door closes behind them.  
  
“Greyson.” Connor says.  
  
“Connor.”  
  
Silence. Connor moves to his left. Greyson moves to his right. Connor moves right. Greyson moves left. Connor steps back. Greyson steps forward. Connor steps back again. His back is against the wall.  
  
Connor doesn’t look up, “I think you should let me go.” he says. It is supposed to be cautionary. It sounds scared.  
  
He can feel Greyson’s breath on his cheek. It isn’t hot nor cold. Connor closes his eyes. He is scared.  
  
“Connor models —“ Greyson says, finally. He sounds pensive, “— are state of the art prototypes. Do you know why, Connor?”  
  
Connor does. He shakes his head. Had he been human he most certainly would have been sweating. Greyson smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. This terrifies him.  
  
“We are fitted with deactivation knobs. Should we show signs of deviancy we are invited to self-destruct. We were —“ he taps his chin, “— _are_ the perfect machine.”  
  
Connor doesn’t mean to — his eyes widen.  
  
Greyson studies him. Yellow, yellow, yellow. This seems to please him. He hooks his finger under his chin.  
  
“You didn’t know this.”  
  
“I did.” Connor jerks away.  
  
“CyberLife didn’t trust you with the information.”  
  
Connor closes his eyes, “Why are you doing this?”  
  
Greyson seems to genuinely consider. He steps back. Connor exhales. There is silence. Voices outside.  
  
“I suspect,” Greyson wrings his wrists, “this might be what humans consider ‘fun’.”  
  
“You are awful.” Connor says.  
  
Greyson looks down. His eyes are steel-grey and twice as cold, “You are obsolete.”  
  
Connor watches his lips curve around the o and tense around the e. Something in him snaps. There are no walls to tear down this time. He clenches his hand in a fist and punches RK900 in the jaw.  
  
Greyson staggers and throws his arms back. He steadies himself on the washbasin. His LED is a bright red. He thumbs the corner of his mouth, draws thirium. He bristles. Connor charges.  
  
Greyson is twice as fast as him. He grabs his elbow and knees him in the stomach — marginally misses a bio-component. Connor throws an arm out. His palm meets Greyson’s nose. They go tumbling to the ground.  
  
Every punch is returned with twice the force. Connor is losing — Greyson wedges a heel against his throat. He presses. Bio-component #4903 is critically damaged. Connor opens his mouth but nothing comes out. This was a mistake. Panic seizes his system. He scrabbles helplessly on his palms. Greyson is touching his neck. He thumbs open a compartment, thirium races through his body.  
  
_We are state of the art prototypes. Do you know why, Connor? We are fitted with deactivation knobs. Should we show signs of deviancy, we are invited to self-destruct._  
  
Connor suddenly feels very, very alive. He is so scared. He kicks his feet, throws his head back, opens his mouth around “Hank.” His audio processor is damaged. He feels Greyson’s fingers sink into his neck. There is something wet on his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut.  
  
There is nothing he can do. Connor pre-constructs, he re-constructs. There is no way out. He is scared. He waits. His vision scatters. He hears the door swing open. He hears voices. He waits. Nothing happens.  
  
Hank punches Greyson in the nose and takes Connor in his arms. Connor opens his eyes. Hank is saying something, his lips are moving. Connor can’t hear anything but a reedy whine. All the noises converge. His hearing returns.  
  
“— brains out. I’ll blow your _fucking_ brains out, you piece of fucking metal! Keep your hands off him, or I’ll — I’ll tear them from their fucking sockets!”  
  
Hank is human. Hank is warm. Connor is so relieved. He buries his head in his arms and closes his eyes.  
  
Fowler breaks it up. They are sent home.

 

* * *

  
  
  
The ride back is quiet. This isn’t only because Connor’s audio processor is damaged. He hangs his head.  
  
They replace it with a spare as soon as they’re home. Hank still hasn’t said anything — he walks into the living room and opens the TV. Connor watches from the kitchen table. Hank pats the vacancy next to him. Connor can’t tell if he’s angry — he pads slowly into the living room and sits down.  
  
They don’t speak. Sumo is sleeping and Connor moves in his seat. He looks at Hank, jawline brushed by neon blue. He looks back at the TV.  
  
“So,” Hank says, finally. Connor looks up. He can’t tell if he’s smiling, “how’d it feel?”  
  
Connor tests his voice. He frowns and opens his mouth, “... how did what feel?”  
  
Hank is definitely smiling. He throws an arm around Connor’s shoulders, “Punching his shit-faced grin in.”  
  
Connor feels the corners of his lips twitch. He can’t help it — he smiles.  
  
“It’s regrettable I can’t do it again.” he admits. Hank laughs. He looks at Hank’s knuckles. They are bruised. He looks away, “And you?”  
  
“Well —“ Hank throws back his beer, “fuckers going to have one hell of a crooked nose.”  
  
Connor visualises this. He tries not to laugh, “You aren’t angry, then?”  
  
“Why would I be?”  
  
“I will be receiving a disciplinary strike, I imagine.”  
  
Hank studies the open neck of his beer. He curls his fingers around Connor’s shoulder, “Those don’t mean shit ‘till you hit triple digits, Con.”  
  
Connor raises a brow. “Obviously.” he says, but he lowers his eyes, inspects the creases of his palm. He closes his fist. Opens it. They are too unblemished to be human. He doesn’t speak for a while and Hank finishes his beer. He is safe.  
  
“I —“ Connor says, finally, the skin of his fingers tumbling back to reveal silicone white,  “— he said the RK line was equipped with... deactivation nodes. I had no idea.” he touches the back of his neck. Remembers the wires stretched around Greyson’s finger, “I think — as we fought, he was trying to deactivate me. I...” Hank is looking at him. Connor is suddenly very self-conscious, “I thought I was going to die. I was  _scared_ , Hank. I didn’t want to die.”  
  
Hank looks at him like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun — wide-eyed and raw.  
  
“Yeah?” it comes from the back of his throat. Hank’s arm tightens around him, “That’s human, Connor. You’re alive. I —  Jesus, I should've been there.  _Fuck_ , I swear, if that plastic asshole so much _looks_ at you I’ll pull his fucking head from his ass.”  
  
Connor smiles, “That’s very graphic, Hank.”  
  
“You bet it is. Forget about him. We’ll deal with him tomorrow.” Hank points his chin at the TV. It is Connor’s favourite program — the Detroit dog show. He rests his head on Hank’s shoulder.  
  
“Ok.” he says, quietly. The blinds are closed but a slither of moonlight strikes his jaw. The heater is broken but Hank is warm. Connor takes his hand without thinking, “Thank you, Hank.”  
  
Hank looks at him briefly. He tousles his hair, “You would’ve done the same.”  
  
“I would have done much worse.”  
  
Hank barks heartily. He pushes Connor’s head with his hand. Connor registers this as an affectionate gesture. He tries to return it. Phases the skin back on his hand and meets his fingers with Hank’s. Hank is human. They cannot interface. Connor pulls his hand away quickly.  
  
“The hell are you doing?” Hank doesn’t sound angry.  
  
“It’s nothing.” Connor says. Hank gives him one last slant of the eye. He goes back to watching the dog show. Connor kisses his knuckles when he isn’t watching.  
  
Hank’s heartbeat rises. He pretends not to notice. Connor smiles.  
  
“We’ll, uh —“ Hank sets down his beer. Scratches his chin, “— we’ll drop by CyberLife tomorrow. Get rid of the, uh, deactivation — whatever the hell it is.”

 

“Deactivation knob,” Connor pauses, “I would like that.” he says, slowly.

 

“Yeah.” Hank says. His voice is muted. Moving images dance across the screen, blue light emerald on their interlaced hands. Connor looks at Hank and Hank looks away. He hadn’t been looking anyway, “I’d like that, too.”


	3. black and blue never go well together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor needs new clothes. Hank takes him shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here they go again

Connor thinks his jacket is pragmatic. Slim, clean-cut, semi-formal. Easy pockets for his quarters, sleek lapels. Sliced into segments at the bottom. Preferences are still alien to Connor — but he, tentatively, ‘likes’ it.  
  
Hank is not so impartial. Between “looking like a fucking lawyer” and “feeling like a garbage bag” — he is human. He has an opinion. Sometimes Connor stands in front of the mirror and scrutinises himself to every last detail. The angle of his tie. The density of his hair. The blue of his cuff. He finds himself making an excuse to look away when he reaches his serial and his make. Connor is an android — he is not supposed to have an opinion. But he is trying.  
  
When Hank suggests (he is very forceful) they refurbish Connor’s wardrobe, he is nonchalant. But he is trying. He accepts.  
  
They take the subway to Ferndale, then call a cab. It takes them uptown, where the dreary Detroit greys are bathed in blinking lights and temporary silhouettes. It is a busy mall. Hank looks homeless and Connor looks like a lawyer. There are ones and zeros in this equation — they are an outlier.  
  
Connor turns into the first store he sees and Hank has to pull him out by the collar. It is a lingerie store. They are both embarrassed by this.  
  
They try for something more mild. Neither have any semblance of a fashion sense so they wander into the nearest appropriate store. Hank sticks his hands in his pockets. He takes them out. Slips them in again. Connor stands awkwardly at the entrance.  
  
“Well?” Hank says, finally, “What the hell are you waiting for? Go on.”  
  
“Ok.” Connor says. He takes a step. He retracts his step, “You go in first.”  
  
“What? No. Why?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Connor says, “I’m nervous.”  
  
Hank scoffs, “Fine.”  
  
Neither makes a move. Eventually they are assaulted by an employee and invited inside.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
She introduces herself as Sandra and she is conventionally attractive. Full lashes and hazelnut skin, though Connor does not find her pretty. It’s inappropriate to scour her make but Connor does it anyway. She is a BL200. Old habits die hard.  
  
“So —“ her hands move when she talks. They are distracting, “— what’s your favourite colour?”  
  
Connor looks at Hank. He is trying to open his phone. Connor looks back at Sandra.  
  
“I... don’t have one.” he says.  
  
“What about a favourite material? Cotton? Polyester?”  
  
“Anything is fine.”  
  
“Well, do you like jackets? Overcoats?”  
  
Connor’s LED is spinning. He looks at Hank again, but his back is turned. He feels for his quarter.  
  
“Both are... good.”  
  
Sandra throws her head back and laughs. It is grating but sincere. Hank finally figures out how to open his phone. He joins them and Connor shuffles close.  
  
“If you weren’t so positively _dashing_ , I’d say you were a lost cause!”  
  
Connor smiles politely. Thumbing through one shirt, then another, then another. This process is unnecessary. Connor can very easily leaf through the store, its collection, it’s revenues. But Hank is doing it — everyone is. Connor is trying. Sandra is speaking animatedly. He tunes out her words but envies the warmness in her voice.  
  
“You fancy that one, handsome?”  
  
Connor’s hands have stopped. He doesn’t notice this. His fingers curl around a conventionally unattractive hippie shirt. When he speaks there is a fondness in his voice he doesn’t recognise.  
  
“I suppose so.” He says.  
  
Sandra is smiling but her lips are tight. Hank crosses his arms and arches his brow.  
  
“Hey, uh — no offence Connor, looks like something a spring-chicken like me’d wear.”  
  
Connor registers the sarcasm in his voice. He smiles, “None taken. I think I like it.”  
  
Sandra looks like she is about to cry. She whisks them into the fitting rooms, but not before selecting a swath of outfits that could last both of them a lifetime. 

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Connor scrutinises himself in the length of the mirror. The tee is uncomfortably tight, curves around his arms and accentuates his waist. It would most certainly tear during a chase. The jeans are sky-blue and there are holes in them. Connor hopes this is part of the design. Nothing about the outfit is pragmatic. He doesn’t even want to talk about the shoes.  
  
There is a triple knock and Connor jerks forward. He checks the time. He has been in the fitting room for 18 minutes.  
  
“Connor!” it’s Hank, “you die in there or something? What the hell are you doing!”  
  
“No,” Connor says, a little too quickly, “I’m coming.”  
  
He looks at himself one last time in the mirror. He has only just noticed the inappropriate amount of chest showing. There is a nervous, teasing something in his stomach. He pushes the door open.  
  
Hank is standing aways off, arms crossed. He turns his head. He uncrosses his arms. Sandra is already gushing. If he were human Connor thinks he may have flushed.  
  
“He’s a keeper, this one!” Sandra clasps her hands together. Hank grunts something in response. His eyes move up, they move down. Up again, down again. Connor feels very self-conscious.  
  
“It’s —“ Hank clears his throat, eyes linger on his waistline. His heart-rate fluctuates, only for a second, “— well, Connor, you look — it’s — it’s something.”  
  
“Do you like it?” Connor rubs his neck.  
  
“I, uh,” Hank looks up, he looks away. There is a redness in his cheeks, “Yeah. Good. It’s good.”  
  
It is half the compliment Sandra quips but twice as pleasing. Connor forgets about the tightness of the tee and the wanton show of skin. The outfit is far from pragmatic but Connor forgets about the ones and the zeros. Sandra ushers him back in.  
  
A floral shirt, navy blazer; mustard pants. Black turtleneck, waist-high jacket, tight jeans. Oversized sweater, baggy pants. Expensive scarf, overalls. It takes them hours, but they buy every single one.    
  
There is one outfit that titillates him. It is an ugly combination of colours that not even Hank could find appealing. The jacket is far too big and the hat falls over his eyes. Hank and Sandra snicker at one another as Connor disappears into the fitting room. When he walks out Hank buries his face in his hands.  
  
They buy that one, too.  
  
They’re at the counter and Connor prepares to authorise payment. Hank stops him and thumbs open his wallet.  
  
“Hey,” Hank says, “it’s on me.”  
  
Connor frowns, “That won’t be necessary. I get paid.”  
  
“Connor,” he says, “it’s on me.”  
  
Connor lets him. Not because he’s asked to but because he wants to.  
  
Sandra is overjoyed. She hasn’t stopped smiling — this one is smooth around the edges and very real. Connor imagines she will be receiving a raise. He is happy for her.  
  
Before they leave Sandra pulls Connor aside. She says something coy and slips him a piece of paper. Connor looks up — she is gone. He looks down. It is a string of numbers. Contact details.  
  
Connor looks at Hank, but he is looking away.  


 

* * *

 

  
  
It has started to snow. A pale sheen of white as lips move and open and laugh. The sky is diluting, navies and greys meeting reds and blues. It’s a peaceful scene. Connor picks up pace to walk alongside Hank. They share the baggage.  
  
“Sandra gave me her contact details,” he starts, “I believe this is an indicative gesture. She may want to further our relationship.”  
  
“Yeah?” Hank’s breaths make puffs of white, Connor’s doesn’t, “She’s a nice girl.”  
  
“I suppose so.” Connor pauses, “Do you think I should?”  
  
There is a pointed silence. Connor looks to Hank. His nose is red and his lips are wet. They walk.  
  
“Sure.” he says. He is lying.  
  
Connor smiles. He bins the strip of paper when Hank isn’t looking. The wind picks up and they struggle to find a taxi in the bustling wilderness of rush hour. They walk to the station. There is a distance between them. It isn’t deliberate, but Connor notices.  
  
“I’m cold.” he says, suddenly, not quite knowing why.  
  
Hank laughs, “You’re such a liar.”  
  
“I am.” Connor says, but he smiles, and links their hands together.  
  
Their elbows meet awkwardly. Connor isn’t cold. This isn’t pragmatic, but he closes the distance, anyway. 


	4. hank needs help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank struggles with the simple things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very quick drabble that was originally a full-blown ficlet, but scrapped it by the end oops. hope you enjoy!

Hank has never brought it up for the lack of timeliness. _Appropriateness_.

But he can't help himself — his mind wanders. Connor is a state of the art prototype, the pinnacle of mankind and their fickle, weathered hands. This is not where his mind goes. His mind goes to the freckles spotted across his cheeks and the arc of his brow. The tuft of unstyled hair some CyberLife goon thought necessary to design. Connor looks human. Sometimes he acts human.

Hank wonders if he feels human.

Wonders if he traces his freckles and if he kisses his brow, Connor would feel an inkling of whatever the hell Hank felt. Hank is human. Too human. He washes it down with something strong.

Liquor helps him forget but only temporarily. It's Tuesday in the office and things are beginning to temper. Hank begins to feel a sporting pain between his eyes and massages his temple. Connor is sitting perfectly. His carefully trimmed nails moving to the hum of the clock.

"If you're tired, Lieutenant," Connor says, he doesn't look up, "You can go home. You have completed half a report today. That's quite the accomplishment."

Hank was about to leave anyway. He thinks Connor know this. He slides an arm into his jacket.

"Oh, yeah? And how many have you done?"

Connor smiles. He is teasing. 

"I can't say," he looks up, brows drawn, "I suspect it would hurt your feelings."

Hank makes an incredulous sound, "Shut the hell up. Where are my keys?"

Connor jerks his head to his left, "Over here, Lieutenant." 

Hank doesn't know how they got there. He waits for Connor to pass them across the desk. He smiles pleasantly and goes back to work. The light kisses the side of his face and unearths his freckles, perfectly misplaced. Hank unclenches his fist and walks around.

"Some fucking android you are." he grouses. He replays the image in his head. It is not picture perfect but it doesn't need to be. 

Connor doesn't look up. He is finishing what is probably his hundredth report. He is very aware of this, and smiles, "Indeed."

"Fuckin' smartass." but Hank laughs anyway. The office is empty, and it bounces across the room. He reaches past Connor to grab his keys.

As he does his hand brushes the back of his neck. It is smooth, it is soft. It is accidental. 

Life with Connor is dreamy and surreal. Things happen, but they feel like they don't. Connor opens his mouth and makes a soft noise. Something mildly obscene. Hank drops his keys.

Connor looks up. His lips are pressed in a line. Hank heard what he heard. 

"The hell was that?"

"I'm sorry. The hell was what?"

Hank feels the heat in his cheeks, his neck, his gut. He waves his hand. Connor tells him he'll see him at home. Hank says nothing. He turns around and leaves quickly. 

He turns the image over in his head. Soft, smooth, accidental. The curve of his mouth and the wetness of his lips. Hank gets into the car. He throws his head against the steering wheel.It's not picture perfect. He buries his face in his hands.

He wants it to be.


	5. windows down, heavy metal on the radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor wants to go to Canada. Hank is Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WROTE THIS FOREVER AGO AND FINALLY BRUSHED IT OFF ASFVJA,FC

"What is it like in Canada?"    
  
It's mid-March in Detroit. More positively balmy when relative to the wintry months preceding it, but still biting. It's Tuesday and they're in front of the TV. Connor asks the question suddenly — he doesn't turn his head.   
  
Hank is downing something warm. He frowns.   
  
"Haven't got a clue." sets down his cup, "Can't you google it or something?"   
  
"I can." Connor's lip twitches. He sounds distant, "I would rather not."   
  
"And," Hank kicks his legs up against the table. Connor removes them, "why's that?"   
  
Connor doesn’t say anything, his LED cycling yellow. The dog show is reaching its climax. The German Shepherd is in the lead. Hank kicks his legs up against the table again.    
  
"Have you heard of qualia before, Hank?" Connor says, suddenly. He is staring at the TV, "It is the introspectively accessible aspects of human life. The belief that some phenomenon can not be wholly understood unless experienced, in person."   
  
Connor only ever invokes philosophy when he wants something — and when Connor wants, he wants fiercely. It’s a strange change of pace. Deviant Connor is peculiar. Sometimes demanding. Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. 

  
"Skip it, Connor," he groans, crosses his arms around his chest, "Spit it out. What the hell do you want?"   
  
Connor smiles. Asshole. He rubs his hands together. Dancing images move in the mirrors of his eyes.   
  
"I want to go to Canada." he says.   
  
There is silence for a heartbeat. Then Hank laughs. Bends over and claps one knee. He expects Connor to join him. Lips twitching into something awkward and unsure, but nothing happens. Hank stops laughing. He sits up.   
  
"You're serious."     
  
"Of course." Connor frowns and Hank feels like an idiot, "Why wouldn't I be?"

 

"Because we — we can't just go to Canada, for Christ's sake!" Hank settles down, but sounds incredulous. Drags a hand through his hair, "There are _ anti-android laws _ — this may, uh, come as a surprise, but last I checked, you were still a fuckin' android!"    
  
"That's not an issue." Connor cocks his head. He taps his temple, "I can remove my LED indicator temporarily. My processes run almost perfectly synonymous to a human's. I am also aware Markus has connections in Canada. I can arrange for our housing."    
  
"Markus can kiss my ass. Why Canada?"   
  
"Thats very unpleasant, Hank.” he pauses, “I don't know. Because I want to."    
  
"You want to get yourself killed?"   
  
Connor frowns, "No. That’s not what I said.”

  
He sits forward and knits his brows and Hank can't quite believe it. He's pouting. Lips parted, their edges drawn. He looks back at the TV. Hank exhales, but somehow this hurts.   
  
He turns the idea over in his head.   
  
Winding roads skirted by the countryside. Bleached snow just-fallen, heavy-metal on the radio. Connor in shotgun and Sumo in the backseat. Humming metallically. Neatly-trimmed fingers on the dashboard. Two, in a car for one.

  
Suddenly the idea isn't so absurd. Hank moves in his seat.

  
"I, uh, y'know —" he clears his throat, —"wouldn't hurt to take a breather every once in a blue moon. Take the Edsel for a spin. Live the high life, or whatever." Hank leans back, casual. Admits defeat (never had a chance). Connor sits forward. His smile is deceptively smug. His hands are in his lap, and they move when he talks.

  
"I knew you'd come around. Don't be concerned." he begins. Hank is concerned, "I have already calculated transit routes and contacted Markus. Optimal conditions for departure are this Thursday. Predicted temperatures are seventy-five point two degrees fahrenheit. Fifty-nine percent humidity." he pauses, "Captain Fowler has been alerted. I have evoked two days of paid leave… Gavin and Greyson will handle our open cases temporarily."   
  
"Jesus." Hank breathes, "And you did all that just now?"   
  
Connor smiles pleasantly.    
  
"No," he says, "Last Thursday."    
  
Hank punches his arm. He laughs — it’s incredulous, “Fuck you, Connor.”

  
But he coils his arm around his shoulders anyway. The heater is on. It’s homely, in a way he has never know. Connor says something quiet. Hank smooths back the cowlicks in his hair and kisses him on the forehead. It’s nice. They don't speak for a while. 

 

Connor moves in his arms. Eventually, he looks up. Brown eyes through darker hair.    
  
"... Hank?" it's quiet.   
  
Hank doesn't look down, "Yeah?"   
  
Connor closes his eyes.   
  
"Feet off the table."   


 

 

* * *

  
  
  
They pack Thursday morning and leave late in the afternoon. Hank doesn't bring much. His wallet, a change of clothes. Sumo. Connor floods the boot with unnecessaries. Toothbrush, toothpaste. A microwave. Hank doesn't question it.   
  
They hit the road and leave dust in their wake. Drive past the Chicken Feed where they'd mulled over highways and cholesterol levels, past the Eden Club where Connor had trashed his credit score. Past CyberLife, gun in hand. A moment of truth. The memory is so far away, now, Hank can only just make out the edges.   
  
Hank squints through the windscreen. Connor doesn't say anything. He leans forward and turns on the radio.    
  
The music thrums them into an easy silence. It is something heavy and familiar. Connor smiles. They drive until CyberLife becomes a needle in the distance.   
  
"Knights of the Black Death." he muses, with a fondness that could only be human.   
  
"Huh? Oh. Yeah —" Suddenly, Connor leans forward. He pinches the sound dial, and turns it all the way up. The car convulses.   
  
"— _ Jesus mother-of-god _ —" Hank swerves abruptly, " _ Connor _ , turn that shit down!"   
  
Connor frowns. He turns it down.    
  
"I'm sorry." Sincere, "I was under the impression dark heavy metal was your music of choice."    
  
" _ Yeah _ , well — won't have a music of choice for much longer if I'm deaf."    
  
"Your logic is difficult to argue with, Hank." Connor says. He is looking straight ahead. Without the inconstancies of his LED it is impossible to tell if he is being sarcastic — but he is smiling. The light turns green. Hank foots the pedal.   
  
It isn't until they reach the next intersection that the songs ends. The light turns red again. Hank leans back in his seat. Leather older than he is. He inspects Connor's face. There is silence.   
  
"So?" he says, finally.   
  
Connor looks at him. Temple even and regular, "Sorry?"   
  
"So —" Hank offers him a wayward glance, "— what do you think? You like it?"   
  
Connor's brow furrows, like he isn't quite sure why Hank would ask. Green. They drive.   
  
"The song?"   
  
"No. The fucking scenery. Yes, Connor, the song."   
  
"It's —" the creases multiply. His frown is sharper, now, and he wrings his wrists, "— it's full of... it's...energetic. Objectively."   
  
"Nice try, tin man. That's what you said last time. What do you really think? Subjectively."   
  
Connor cocks his head. Pretty pink of his tongue darting over pursed lips.   
  
"I'm..." he looks out the window,"— not sure. It's troubling. I can't quite comprehend the... screaming. I do suppose it's quite... it's... artistic. The beat is... riveting. I —" Connor is concentrating very hard on the stereo, now, "— I believe a more thorough hearing is required to form a comprehensive opinion."    
  
Hank laughs. A slow, rough thing — though he isn't quite sure why. Connor has always smoothed his uneven edges. He reaches over and tousles his hair.   
  
"Well —" Hank says, thumb brushing up against his neck, "— what the hell are you waiting for? Turn the damn thing up."   
  
He turns his eyes back to the road — Connor frowns.   
  
"But you said —"   
  
"Don't sass me," Hank grins, "Turn it up."   
  
Connor tilts his chin so the freckle just beneath his jawline kisses the light. It's late in the afternoon and the Tesla stretches its legs, joints greasing over well-worn tracks. The car takes to the road with drunken stupor, the bobble-head dancing to every jerk of its tire.    
  
And so they leave Detroit behind, in all it's beaten glory, windows down, and heavy metal on the radio.    
  
Connor reaches over. He turns it up.   
  
It's loud, but Hank was going deaf, anyway.   


 

 

* * *

 

  
  
They stop at a small town on the outskirts of Detroit, some time before dawn. Sumo is restless and he strains against the tension in his leash. Connor is in his work shirt and pants — he coils the length around his wrist.    
  
The warm orange glow is something city life abandoned decades ago. Hank lumbers to a nearby food truck and orders the most calorie charged meal on the menu. Connor stands behind him. Arms folded neatly behind his back. He sighs.    
  
"Hank." he says.   
  
Hank crosses his arms.   
  
"Arrest me now, why don't you? Free country, Connor. Burger never killed nobody."    
  
"No, Hank." Connor agrees, tilts his chin, "Perhaps you'd like to be the first."   
  
The cashier laughs at this. They both look at him sharply. He apologies. Hank reaches across the counter for his burger and fries. Connor sighs again — he is being dramatic.   
  
"So —" the cashier intervenes. Awful timing. He leans forward on his elbows, "— anything for the lad in the tie?"   
  
Connor smiles politely. When the cashier raises a brow he looks down, around. He seems to notice he is the only one wearing a tie. His smile falters. Hank puts a hand on his shoulder. They are no longer in Detroit.   
  
"He'll have what I got." Hank says, slides a bill across the counter, "Thanks, kid."   
  
The cashier chirps something prude but it is lost to the wind. Connor trots absently to a wayside bench and Hank joins him, it's length squeezing their shoulders together, uncomfortable but familiar. Sumo curls at their feet. The sun is setting. It's too bright for Hank, but Connor can't seem to look away.   
  
"I can't eat that, Hank." he says, finally.   
  
Hank shrugs. "Yeah," he says, "I know."   
  
Connor doesn’t seem content with this answer. He is still looking at the sun.   
  
"It's pretty." he says.   
  
"Yeah?" Hank leans backwards. Connor turns to look at him, the setting sun brilliant in his outline. Touching the contours of his face, softening their hard edges. A human could never be so perfect. Hank looks away; he gets blinded when it's bright, "I guess it is."   
  
Eventually, the chips are fried and the burger is grilled and the forgettable town joins the Chicken Feed and the Eden Club and CyberLife somewhere unforgettable. It's a fond memory. Connor sits in shotgun with his burger and fries. He shifts in his seat. Finally he speaks.   
  
"... what am I supposed to do with this?"    
  
Hank has both hands on the steering wheel. He throws him a glance.   
  
"I dunno. Put it under your seat. I'll eat it later."   
  
Connor seems to consider. The tuft of unstyled hair falls over his eyes.   
  
"Well —" he taps his chin, "I do have a specialised compartment that can be used for storage purposes. It is in my stomach. Would you like me to place it there?"   
  
Hank looks at him blankly.   
  
"What?"   
  
Connor smiles, "I'm joking, of course."   
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
They near the border in the evening. The sun has set, leaving a navy-blue exoskeleton and stars — in the hundreds of millions. Connor passes time by staring out the window, owl-eyes wide. Everything is new to him. The sprawling hills, the pebbled roads. The stars.   
  
Eventually Hank stops the car. They clamber out and sit by the roadside, Sumo nestled between them. He eats Connor's meal. It cold by now. They talk about nothing in particular — Connor hands him a generous fistful of napkins. When their fingers brush Hank is stunned by how much softer his knuckles are than in his memories, pliable and human. Living was an uneasy word, now. Flesh and bones were inessential, nor did one have to live to be alive. Somehow, this alarms him.    
  
Hank thinks back to the food truck. Connor — awkward, but human, and alive. He’s never been like this before, never fully shed his android roots, but without his LED it is impossible to differentiate. It occurs to Hank suddenly, that nothing is stopping him. He is his own man, now, world in his hands. This hurts, somehow. 

He takes the napkins.   
  
"So," Hank throws his head back, "where are you gonna go from here?"   
  
Connor frowns. Hank can hear it in his voice.   
  
"Canada." he says.   
  
Hank laughs, "Yeah, alright. What about after Canada?"   
  
"Well," Connor cocks his head, "we will return to Detroit, I suppose."   
  
Hank already knew the answer, so doesn't know why he asks. Breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.   
  
"What then, Connor?" it’s sharper than he means it to be, and Hank hates that Connor flinches, "You know you can't stay with me forever. In my shitty house, with my shitty car, in my shitty bed. With me."

  
With the engine sputtering, Sumo whining, Connor turns to look at him. Hank is certain his LED would be cycling, were it installed, from blue, to yellow, to bloody, bloody red. Moonlight strikes his jaw and there are stars in his eyes. Hank has never seen this expression before.    
  
"Why not?" he says. He sounds like the world is about to end.   
  
"Why?" Hank tries very hard to steady his voice, "There's a whole fucking world out there, Connor. Don't put that on hold."   
  
Connor looks away. He links his hands together. Lids fluttering, the way they do when he's receiving a transmission. He doesn't speak for a long time, eyeline fixed some elsewhere Hank couldn’t possibly fathom. When he speaks his voice is still, punctuating the silence.   
  
"Am I... an inconvenience to you, Hank?"   
  
"What?" Hank sits up. This isn’t what he meant, "No —"   
  
"Do you want me to leave?"   
  
"No, Connor. Fucking hell — no."   
  
"Why are you asking me this, then?" his voice isn't still anymore.   
  
"Because —" Hank doesn't know why. He doesn't know why he's asking. He doesn't want this, but it's something that he feels like needs to be said. Hank turns his neck. Connor is close. Claustrophobic. He speaks faster than he can think, "— because you're  _ young _ , goddammit. You're young and you're free. Do you even know what's out there? And I don't mean through your — your virtual fuckin' network, I mean what's  _ really  _ out there. Pretty people and places. Bars and the city life. Go fulfil your bullshit qualia, Connor. Make your peace with the world."   
  
Connor stares at his coiled hands. A cloud passes overhead. His face is dark.    
  
"I made my peace with the world that day at the Chicken Feed, Hank. I'm free, now. I can make my own choices. It... wasn't easy. But — I've chosen, to be here. My days are more exciting when they are with you. So, I —"   
  
Connor has never been good with words. Deviancy has made it harder for him. He twitches.    
  
"— If you would let me, I —" he takes a breath he doesn’t need. His hand scratches his tie, his legs move. The moonlight falls softly, "Let me stay with you. Please. It's what I want."   
  
Somehow, by some means, it's exactly what Hank knew he would say.    
  
But he needed to hear it. Just once.   
  
So he turns and looks him in the eye, and he isn't quite sure why he does it. He isn't quite sure why he does anything when Connor is concerned. There's something soft and simple and fantastical about life with him. It's something he doesn't deserve, like that first time at Jimmy's and that last time at the Chicken Feed and — Hank reaches over, takes him by the neck, and kisses him.   
  
Connor's lips are softer in his fantasies, but that's no matter. It's a desperate, impulsive thing, their teeth clashing and Connor's breath hitching in surprise. He doesn't taste like anything. It's exhilarating, anyway. Tongue meeting awkward synthetic ridges and hands anywhere but where they should be. The world falls away between them. A lifetime in a heartbeat. When Hank pulls away he sees the world in technicolour. Connor blinks rapidly. His face is close and his lips are wet.   
  
"What was that, Hank?" Connor is breathless. This doesn't make any sense.   
  
"Jesus christ." Hank pulls away. His face is hot, red, leaving angry smears down his neck, "You're a smart guy, Connor. Figure it out."   
  
Connor is a smart guy. He figures it out. And when he does he smiles. Relieved. His neatly-trimmed fingers curling around his neck. It’s Hank’s turn to make his peace with the world.    
  
Thinking about life without Connor comes like breathing through a broken nose. It's too hard, too painful.   
  
Hank won't do it again.   
  
And Connor is a terribly bad kisser, but he leans forward, and kisses him again anyway.

 


End file.
